Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Aye wor Maz, you’ve done well fer yerself, pet. Pub, flat an’ al’ this. I’m glad, you didny turn oot like us.’ Dave rolled a big joint and lay back on the sofa. His massive frame dwarfed the room. ‘Aye, you’ve got it sorted, lass, well done.’

  Maz was quieter than I’d ever seen her. She just smiled at her brother and puffed on a cigarette. Dave hadn’t let her visit him in prison. He didn’t want her to be embarrassed by her own brother. From the look on Maz’s face, she thought Dave was fantastic.

  Dave turned to me. I felt sheepish next to this big man. In his enormous presence, I actually felt petite. Something made me want to talk like one of the Kray Twins, but I quickly banished the thought from my mind.

  ‘So you’re Jen,’ he asked loudly. ‘Funny ’ow we’ve never met, eh?’

  ‘Yes, funny, hmmm.’

  ‘I thought you’d be reet posh. Big house and geet swanky job and al’ that.’

  ‘No, not at all, A’im not porsh.’ How Now Brown Cow. Oh God, I didn’t know what to say to a … a criminal. Thoughts of knee-cappings flashed through my ridiculously vivid imagination.

  ‘What do you do, Jen?’

  ‘I work for Maz. I used to …’ I suddenly thought back to my brief encounter with ex-con Chip. Although my career in corporate law was a far cry from the lawyers Dave would have met, I felt the intricacies of legal practice would be lost on him. ‘… to um … not work here, but now … I do, see,’ I stammered.

  ‘Uh, right, aye.’ He stared at me blankly. ‘Well, I need a piss,’ he said, and left the room.

  I breathed for the first time in about half an hour. I could be so daft. He was Maz’s slightly clueless brother and here I was treating him like a serial killer, making the poor guy feel completely uncomfortable. Luckily Maz didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘He’s lush isn’t he?’ she sighed after a while, lighting another fag. ‘He learned tons of stuff in jail you kna. Speaks French an’ everythin’.’

  It seemed Dave had entered prison as a poorly schooled amateur criminal, but had emerged, four years later, educated in French, carpentry, hot-wiring, ram-raiding and drug-dealing. He had enough contacts in the criminal underworld to start up his own branch of the North-East Mafia.

  ‘Oui, juz parles france-ay,’ said Dave in a strong Geordie accent as he re-entered the room. ‘Ave-hey voose le fer?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I laughed.

  ‘Ave yuz got a light? Wait, I kna better stuff than that.’

  ‘Ya posh git …’

  ‘Hang on, sis, I’m thinkin’. Aye, voolez-voose couchez avec moise. J’ai un trayse grand sex?’

  ‘What did that last bit mean?’ I was beginning to relax. ‘Will you come to bed with me …’

  ‘I’ve got a geet big —’

  ‘Hi guys!’ Troy suddenly appeared in the room. ‘The apartment door was open so I kinda let myself in. Howzit goin’, guys?’

  ‘Great, Troy.’ I jumped up and grabbed the arm of his crease-proof shirt and kissed his smooth cheek. I instantly wished I’d put on more make-up, or had a full body transplant. Gay or not, being in the presence of such carefully groomed and toned physical perfection made me feel like Cilla Black on HRT.

  ‘Troy, this is Dave, Maz’s brother.’

  ‘Hiya Dave, great to meet ya.’ Troy smiled broadly and patted Dave on the back, almost hugging him in the process. ‘Great name, Dave. Kinda manly,’ he joked.

  ‘Aye right.’ Dave looked puzzled and ignored Troy’s offer of a handshake.

  Troy continued unabashed. ‘So Dave, what’s up? You’ve got a really great body, man, d’you work out? What d’you press?’

  Great, Troy, why not just ask him his favourite position and be done with it? The barrage of questions remained unanswered as Maz and I looked on, intrigued. Dave stared blankly at the sparkling, enthusiastic American. He was totally lost for words, which, I imagined, was not a regular occurrence for Dave. Of course, compared to the people Dave had spent the last few years with, Troy was as alien as a great musical talent in the Top Ten.

  Dave took a long, slow drag on a tab as Troy questioned him about where he liked to buy his clothes, what aftershave he wore and which cocktails he preferred. Maz and I tried not to laugh. Eventually, frowning, Dave stood up, blocking the light as he did so. ‘I’m gan fer a piss,’ he growled, and left the room.

  Troy and I walked out past the scrapyard and down the steep incline towards the river. He swung my arm playfully as I attempted banal conversation. Fearing Dave would stamp on Troy’s head if he heard ‘you’ve got a great body, man’ one more time, I had offered to take Troy out for a bit of cold, fresh air under the guise of showing him the sights. As to which sights, I was still trying to think of some, although four generations of one family wearing matching radio-actively orange shellsuits had provided a moment of special interest.

  The sky was bleak and a strong north wind played havoc with the collection of anti-frizz products that I had cemented to my hair. As we reached the derelict pub halfway down the hill, I heard muffled laughter, followed by a loud explosion. A rocket landed at Troy’s feet and set fire to the laces of his incredibly shiny boots. Bangers exploded all around us as Troy danced about in an attempt to extinguish the flames. I suppressed my giggles at the sight of Troy doing a very good impression of Riverdance, and pulled him away from the war zone.

  ‘A’reet ya chava!’ shrieked the gang of small boys from the top of the crumbling wall. ‘Ya dance like a bleedin’ lass, man.’ They laughed loudly.

  ‘Damn kids,’ Troy growled. ‘They can be so cruel.’ I was surprised to see tears welling up in his eyes.

  ‘Howay man, come ’n’ get us! Gis a kiss, auld wuman.’

  Worried that my delicate friend might start sobbing hysterically, I guided him down the hill, feet still smoking from his close encounter.

  A small ginger-haired boy of about thirteen strutted past with a car stereo under his arm. He stared menacingly up at Troy and began to approach us. As he reached into the immense folds of material in his jeans, searching for a pocket, I felt Troy flinch. Ginger kid pulled out a half-smoked cigar. ‘Got a light, mate?’ he asked. Troy stared blankly and hurried past.

  ‘Fuck ya then, ya ponce!’ came the reply.

  Bravery, I decided, was not Troy’s strong point, but everyone has their weaknesses. He hadn’t kept such a perfect set of teeth from being a fighter. I squeezed his arm reassuringly.

  ‘Troy, are you finding it hard to adjust to living here?’ We sat quietly on a bench by the river. I glanced down the road in the direction of my old flat.

  ‘Oh, not really,’ he stuttered. Troy fiddled with the toggles on his coat and stared down at his slightly charred boots. I attempted conversation.

  ‘So, Troy, as it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow …’ (Not that I believe in all that sentimental tripe of course) ‘… will you and Julio be doing something special together?’

  Troy continued to fiddle with his toggles and avoided my gaze.

  ‘Do you have any plans at all? Have you bought him a card?’

  No answer was the loud reply.

  ‘Earth calling Troy.’ I waved my hand in front of his eyes. He turned towards me. ‘It’s a miracle, he’s alive!’ I joked.

  ‘S … sorry, Jenny, I … um.’

  ‘Did your satellite move out of range for a while?’

  ‘I’m s-s-sorry, Jenny …’

  ‘Stop saying s-s-sorry. What’s wrong?’

  A guaranteed zero-response question to ask a man.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you upset about your shoes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did someone die?’

  ‘Jenny.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you celebrate Valentine’s Day in America?’

  Suddenly Troy took my hand and held it tightly to his chest. I stared at his tear-stained face. He was positively blubbering. I was all for the new man as far as doing menial chores and leaving the best jobs for us was c
oncerned, but this seemed a little excessive. I suddenly felt like Troy’s mother. I had an urge to either throw up or laugh, but I controlled myself and patted his shaking hands.

  ‘What is it, Troy?’

  ‘He dumped me,’ Troy cried, squeezing my hand even tighter. ‘Dumped, chucked, tossed away. Tossed like one of his mixed salads.’

  Mmm, nice analogy. ‘Oh, oh dear,’ I stuttered.

  Troy tightened his grip. ‘I feel so used.’

  The exertion of my morning jog had clearly taken its toll on my brain. I could think of absolutely nothing of any help or relevance to say.

  ‘Um, Troy,’ I began hesitantly.

  He sniffed and stared at me with tear-filled, puppy dog eyes. Oh God.

  ‘Y … yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘Um, do you think you could let go of my hand? I think you’re cutting off the circulation.’

  He sighed exaggeratedly and pulled his hands away. Help, I had no training in these man-dumps-man scenarios, I didn’t know the rules. Following my recent experience of the man-dumps-woman scenario, it was hardly my favourite topic of conversation either. Come on, Jen, I said to myself, don’t be selfish. He’s hurting, he needs advice. How different can it be from man-dumps-woman?

  ‘What a bastard,’ I said strongly. ‘He’s a bastard, forget him.’

  Troy wailed loudly. ‘He’s not a bastard, he’s lovely.’

  Ok, so it was different.

  Troy shook his head, sending more than one globule of snot flying through the air. ‘He’s gorgeous, he’s fit, he’s Italian …’

  Good point.

  ‘I love his clothes, I love the way he walks, I love the way he wiggles his neat little butt.’

  Right, I get it.

  ‘I love the way he kisses me. I love his smooth, tanned skin.’

  Yeah, yeah, I really do get it now.

  ‘I love the way he’s so tender in bed. I love his …’

  OK, too much information coming up. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ I interrupted loudly. (Give me a break, it’s all I could think of.)

  ‘I love it all, Jenny,’ Troy sobbed. ‘I love him.’

  Oh come on man, you’ve only known the bloke two bloody days. What are you, an emotional leech?

  ‘I understand, Troy, you poor thing,’ I said aloud.

  I put a reassuring arm around his shoulder and listened as he poured out his sorry tale, nodding and making comforting noises in all the right places. Blimey, this was heavy stuff for a forty-eight-hour relationship. I mean, we’re all entitled to the grief, the self-pity and the lashings of attention but I was quietly thankful that he hadn’t turned out to be boyfriend material. Troy carried more baggage than a 747. Dumping a man like him would not be a pleasant experience. Not that I’d dumped many boyfriends in my life, unless you count James Harvey. He was nine, I was just ten and we had been going out since first break (approximately three hours). I wrote a note on his times-tables book along the lines of ‘you’re not my boyfriend any more, boys smell’. Short but to the point, I thought.

  ‘Well, if you’re at a loose end,’ I began, trying desperately to change the subject, ‘we could spend Valentine’s Day together.’ (It’s not like I’ll be particularly busy.)

  Troy stared at me blankly.

  ‘Let me see, we could watch a film,’ I smiled.

  Not a hint of enthusiasm.

  ‘Or a meal …’

  He brushed away a tear.

  ‘Whitley Bay, drinks …’

  He attempted a smile but said nothing.

  ‘Bingo, knitting club, mass suicide, a Julio Iglesias concert …’

  He burst into tears. Shit, I had to say ‘Julio’ didn’t I.

  ‘Sorry, bad choice of words.’ I scrabbled in my pockets for a tissue as tears seemed to erupt from every pore on Troy’s face. You’ll look back on this and laugh, I wanted to say, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, he’s not worth it. I was teetering on the outskirts of cliché city. If we had been at home, I would have put the kettle on and baked a cake. Luckily, I opted for silence.

  ‘Jenny,’ Troy managed during a lull in the emotional overload. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. Flippin’ heck, please don’t be a suicide note.

  ‘My cousin runs a television company,’ he continued, handing me the envelope ‘Well, him and my uncle actually, they run it together now.’

  I smiled a confused smile.

  ‘I know how much Maz loves talk shows and I thought you’d both enjoy seeing one.’ He wiped his eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Troy, what a kind thought, Maz will love it. Are you coming with us?’

  Troy shook his head and let out a faint sob.

  ‘I’m going back home for a while, Jenny. I think it’s for the best.’

  I nodded sympathetically. Lucky sod – given a choice between a tropical beach in Hawaii and a minuscule Italian waiter I had known for all of five minutes, I had no doubt about which one I would choose.

  ‘Enjoy the show,’ Troy said through a watery smile, ‘I hope it makes you happy.’

  Chapter Ten

  14th February, 9:05 a.m.

  ‘It is just a normal day. Do not check the post.’ I made the same vow for the fifth time in as many minutes as grim reality dawned. The one totally depressing day that instills dread and pitifully false hopes in the minds of most single people had trundled around again. Blimey, a year just flies by doesn’t it?

  At 26 and, in my opinion, rapidly going downhill to meet my sagging backside, I still awoke early with the thought, Perhaps this will be the year. The year in which unidentified truckloads of roses and cuddly bears hugging lacy cushions emblazoned with ‘I heart U 4 eva’ are delivered to my door. Disgustingly shiny padded cards bearing pictures of skipping bunnies, the EC chocolate mountain, red-and-black racy knickers, heart-shaped helium balloons and gifts in equally poor taste flood to my door and necessitate the hiring of extra staff by the postal service.

  ‘That Jennifer Summer,’ marvel the crowd of onlookers, ‘she always gets the most cards on Valentine’s Day. I wish I could be like her.’ (Swoon, swoon.)

  Of course, on any other day of the year, any semi-sane person with an ounce of good taste would puke at the sight of the majority of these gifts. Let’s face it, satin padded cards really suck. Two-foot tall, pastel-coloured, satin padded cards should burn in hell, along with ski-pants, wheel clampers and techno music. What sort of poor, disillusioned creature designs those things? I’d like to see their ideas on interior design. Satin padded wallpaper probably, with matching straitjacket.

  Why then, on February 14th, am I, along with a large proportion of the population, scanning the horizon for my two-foot tall envelope? Praying to Saint Pat, the patron saint of postmen, for my fair share of satin, padding, pastel and skipping bunnies. Dying to read those gold-embossed italic words, ‘To my girlfriend’, and marvel at how the card can stand up with just a thin sliver of cheap cardboard on the back half. (They’re only ever padded on one side, you see. I suspect to keep them below the highly-inflammable-mattress rate of postage.) I feel ashamed but, apparently, on February 14th anything goes. I, along with the rest of the world, lose touch with reality. Even a card from the 96-year-old blind man from down the road would be better than no card at all.

  Well, this year, I was determined to rebel against this evil force of our society. No satin for me. Not even a hint of red aluminium foil helium balloons. This year, February 14th was to be a day like any other. So far, my willpower had lasted a total of 6 minutes 45 seconds from waking up. Only about 14 hours, 53 minutes and 15 seconds to go.

  By 10:00 a.m., I had checked the letterbox and surrounding area four times, under the pretence of expecting an important bank statement. By 11:00 a.m. I had rummaged through Maz’s gigantic pile of cards, mostly unopened, in a vain attempt to find one of mine incorrectly filed. By 11:30, I had re-checked the letterbox numerous times, telephoned Royal Mail to ask whether there was an industrial strike and consume
d an entire 500g box of Milk Tray, which I promised to replace later in Maz’s pile when my own eventually arrived. Things were not looking altogether bright and breezy.

  Eventually, after being told to ‘p*** off you sad cow and stop phoning!’ (quite rude, I thought, for one of Her Majesty’s postmen. It was only the fourth time I’d rung), I gave up hope. Feeling sick from stress (or perhaps too much chocolate), I finally resigned myself to a romance-free life on Single Street. I dragged myself up to my room to get ready for my lunchtime shift.

  ‘Jen! Jen! I found this at the door. Someone must have delivered it!’

  Maz burst into the room waving a pale yellow envelope above her head.

  I sighed. ‘Yeah right, Maz, nice try. Thanks for the kind thought but I haven’t quite resorted to lesbianism yet.’

  ‘Howay man, I didny send ya it. I’m not wastin’ good beer money on shite cards for you like.’

  She laughed and threw the envelope on my bed. It was definitely a card. Pastel colours were promising. Visions of Jack’s lips lovingly licking the envelope flashed through my mind. After all, it was the day for romance. Even I deserved a declaration of undying love. I glanced over at Maz, bit my lip with nervous tension and slowly reached for the envelope.

  Perhaps there is something worse than not getting any cards on Valentine’s Day. The realisation at 26 that your only hope of a card is a sympathy vote from your dad can be deeply depressing. The thought crossed my mind that he could have opted for the unsigned version. That would at least have given me the chance to pretend it was from someone else. ‘Luv Dad’ was maybe a little obvious. I’d thank him later.

  ‘I tellt you wuman man,’ said Auld Vinny as he sucked the filling out of his lunchtime meat pie, ‘it’s jest another excuse fer the lasses to get presents oot o’ their fella. Aye man, it’s a load o’ canny shite. A lass invented it, I bet ya.’